


Bellamy's Bad Morning

by these_dreams_go_on



Series: In the Bunker [4]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Bellarke, F/M, Fluff, In the bunker, Post Season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-26 23:19:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12069000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/these_dreams_go_on/pseuds/these_dreams_go_on
Summary: (Nosoi- Spirits of Pestilence and Disease)(Polybus- Hippocrates son-in-law)





	Bellamy's Bad Morning

Bellamy Blake was _not_ having a good morning.

For many reasons.

The first being that his double shift had ended three hours ago and he had fallen into bed, hoping to sleep for a solid eight hours, only to find himself being poked awake just as he had started dreaming.

Which led to reason number two.

Nobody liked being woken up by an armed and dressed warrior holding a spear to their throat.

  
“What?” he coughs, rubbing his eye and struggling to stay awake, “Do you want?”

Sampson glared at him, “Heda wants to speak to Wanheda.”

 _  
Who_ wanted to _what_ now?

  
Oh.

  
O wanted to speak to Clarke.

Bellamy dimly notes that he’s in his bed in his quarters and that nobody seemed the least bit concerned for his safety, or at the very least, willing to intervene so he could get some shut eye.

Shame there weren’t any latrines that needed digging in the bunker.

  
“Okay,” he mumbles, “And?”

  
The man jerks his chin and Bellamy glances down, finally figuring out where his pillow had gone.

Clarke was in his bed.

He can’t remember anything after walking through the door the night before, but his arm is draped over her side and he doesn’t appear to have squashed or bruised her when he’d tumbled into bed.

Sighing, he reaches up to clasp her hand, pressing it gently and she squirms, waking up with a smothered squeal of displeasure that Bellamy thinks is adorable.

The warrior who had no qualms about waking him up with a sharp, pointed object, visibly quails when the five ft four blonde nineteen-year-old woman glares at him.

  
“What?!” she demands, and Bellamy guesses that she’d had the night shift in the med bay.

  
It would explain a lot.

  
Somehow, through what Bellamy had to assume was either bad luck or their enemies actively working against them, he and Clarke were often pulling the night shifts. This meant they were getting to their beds when their bunk mates were waking up and making a choice he’s not entirely sure was logical, they’d figured that they might as well sleep in one bed to cut down on the amount of people who had to move quietly around them.

  
Although the number of people giving them suggestive looks seemed only to have grown.

  
“Heda wants to speak to you.” the man repeated and Clarke sighed,

“Is it an emergency?” she asked and the man faltered, clearly unsure how to respond.

  
When his little sister spoke, nobody questioned her these days. It was a little weird and awe-inspiring for him to watch as she issued an order and there were no arguments, nobody second-guessing her or protesting her decisions.

He suspected that she sought advice from Indra and Kane, but behind closed doors.

Bellamy guesses that if Clarke asks any more questions, the man will have an existential crisis so he nudges her gently,

  
“Want me to come with?” he asks but she shakes her head,

“Only one of us should be sleep-deprived.” she groans, pushing herself up and the warrior takes a noticeable step backwards as she begins pulling on her pants.

  
She shuffles from the room and Bellamy takes the opportunity to steal his pillow back, closing his eyes and enjoying the momentary solitude. He figures it must be mid-morning, which was why the quarter was empty.

So, in theory, Clarke could have returned to her own bed. But he’s just beginning to drift back off to sleep when he hears the door sliding open and her sigh as she kicks off her shoes, slipping back beneath the covers.

  
“Mom and Jackson think we might be looking at an outbreak of star pox,” she mumbles, shifting closer to him to begin her take-over of his pillow,

“We may need to quarantine our people, because the grounders have never had it before.”

  
He remembers getting star pox as a kid, white spots dotting his skin like his freckles would one day. Octavia had been entranced and then sulked when her own pox had been barely visible against her pale skin.

And he processes the word quarantine and feels the beginnings of despair in his soul.

As head of the security for the bunker, Kane would be in charge of the practical side of the quarantine, turning Abby and Jackson’s requirements into reality, which meant…

_  
“Bellamy Blake to the Infirmary, Bellamy Blake to the Infirmary.”_

“Should have let Praimfaya kill me.” He moans into the quarter of the pillow he still has access to, counting up to sixty before getting to his feet.

  
Abby has half a cup of cooling tea waiting for him when he stumbles into her infirmary, and he suspects it was Clarke’s.

  
“Finish this.” She orders and he throws it down, tasting the mix of leaves and herbs that formed the energising brew. Receiving a sympathetic pat on the shoulder from her, he turns to Kane and raises his eyebrows, not yet capable of polite speech.

“Turns out, Octavia is asymptomatic,” Kane begins, perched on the edge of the bed as Abby and Jackson carried out some bizarre series of movements around them,

“Indra, Roan and Gaia are already down, and I’ve caught the pox in every single outbreak we’ve ever had, so I’ll probably be useless before dinner time, which means…”

“You need me to oversee the quarantine.” he surmises, leaning against the wall and then straightening up when he feels his body trying to relax.

* * *

  
The problem with not having to spend every day fighting for survival was that your body stopped producing the adrenaline necessary to keep going for days on end without sleep.

Thankfully, Miller was his second in command and, as a functional mute himself, was able to process Bellamy’s barely comprehensible orders into something that passed as English.

The grounders were concerned at the news of the outbreak but once they heard that the symptoms were fever, exhaustion and white spots across the skin that had no lingering side effects, they were amused by how weak Skai-kru was.

It didn’t help that Bellamy was running on fumes at this point as he tried to figure out how to quarantine his people while still keeping the oxygen scrubbers, water station and farms running.  

It meant that the grounders who’d been apprenticed to these areas were getting a crash course in manning them solo, or being bossed around on the radio by their quarantined and/or bedridden mentors.

It was only half a disaster, but still enough of an issue for his immune system to run down. 

And two days later, when he steps out of the shower to notice that he has white spots on his stomach, he finds himself almost excited by the thought of the mandatory bed rest.

He hands off all his duties to Miller and reports himself for quarantine.

  
“Try looking a little less pleased with yourself, young man” Abby suggests as she puts the tongue depressor in his mouth, “It’s hardly a skill contracting star pox.”

* * *

  
Because Skai-kru were the only ones outside of Indra, Roan and Gaia, who had caught the pox so far, the quarantine zone was in their living areas, with Clarke’s quarters being one of the resting areas, so all Bellamy has to do is grab the pillow from his bed and settle down in hers.

Clarke was one of the unlucky few who had caught it once in childhood and developed immunity, so she continues working night shifts and then pulling extra hours when Jackson wound up in the bed next to Bellamy.

Bellamy suspects she’s a little resentful that he gets bedrest in what is almost a vacation for him.

It would certainly explain why he woke up early one morning to find her crouching over him, the blankets pushed down to his waist as something soft trailed across his chest.

  
“Where’s my pillow?” he mumbled, his neck protesting the lack of elevation.

“I needed it.” Clarke answered, not looking up from his stomach and he blinked up at her in confusion.

“Where’s your pillow?”

“I needed that one too.”

“You’re not even sleeping.” He protests, before noting that she’s holding a marker in her hand.

“Are you drawing on me?” he asks, lifting his head to see black ink forming lines over his skin,

“Uh huh.” She replies, “Connect the pox dots, it’s cathartic.”

“Thanks, Princess.” He smirks, settling back down and she shrugs,

“You’re due for a check-up in an hour anyway.”

  
He looks to the corner of the bedpost where Clarke had hung her dad’s watch, seeing the time and sighing as he began stretching his limbs.

  
“Stop that!” Clarke whacked his shoulder, “You’ll ruin my artwork.”

Bellamy chuckled, “It’s my body.”

“Well it’s not my fault you have the best skin tone for star pox.” She said, flashing him a smile as she bent a little closer and the marker moved to his side,

“What about Jackson?” he asked,

“Pretty sure Jackson wouldn’t let me do this to him.”

  
Right, he supposed it took a certain level of trust to let someone draw on you.

And a few moments later, when he’s properly awake, he realizes it also took a certain level of spontaneity that Clarke didn’t usually exhibit when her medical skills were needed.

  
“Pause for a second,” he tells her, waiting until she’s holding the marker clear before pushing himself up into a sitting position and placing the back of his hand against her forehead.

“You’re hot.”

She raised her eyebrows, “Well, even though you’re in my bed, I _wasn’t_ expecting a pick-up line.”

“Jackson,” Bellamy called, “Clarke has a fever and seems a little out of it.”

Jackson raised his head from the pillow, “Give her some water and make her rest, if it’s not down in an hour or two, then we’ll deal with it.”

 

Bellamy brings his legs up and moves around Clarke, climbing down to the cold floor and trudging to the water station in the hallway.

 

“No arguments,” he says firmly as she opens her mouth to protest, “Drink.”

She glares but empties the glass, “Happy?” she challenges as he climbs back into the bed,

“Almost,” he allows, holding up the blankets, “Get in.”

  
Scowling, Clarke kicks off her shoes and flops down, turning her back on him almost immediately.

  
“Figures that I can’t have fun without people assuming I’m delirious with illness.” She mutters under her breath and he feels a stab of regret,

“Hey,” he leaned over, drawing her hair from her face and tucking it behind her ear, 

“If you still want to draw on me when you’re feeling better, you can.”

She snorts but doesn’t shake him off when he slides an arm over her shoulders, pulling the blankets up around them.

* * *

 

“ _Bellamy_ ,” Octavia’s terrified voice whispered in his ear, “ _There are guards outside the door!_ ”

 

Bellamy shot up, reaching for his sister before he could figure out where he was.

 

“Not funny, O,” he groused as she chuckled, “Abby sent me, you’re due for a check-up.”

Her eyes flickered to Clarke, “Speaking of Griffin women, why are you sharing a bed with Clarke when there are like five empty ones?”

  
Bellamy was not going to have this conversation again, he was still recovering from the time Monty and Miller had cornered him to ask about his new sleeping arrangement.

  
“Don’t you have a sick husband to worry about?”

“Nah,” she shrugged, “I left him alone and defenseless with Indra, I’m sure he’s fine.”

Climbing over Clarke, he noted the reappearance of the two pillows and that she had fallen asleep again, he tucks the blankets back around her before turning to his sister,

“Come on, Nosoi,” he says, guiding her from the room, “Get me to Hippocrates.”

Octavia glanced at him unimpressed, “If Abby is Hippocrates, does that make you Polybus?”

 

**Author's Note:**

> (Nosoi- Spirits of Pestilence and Disease)   
> (Polybus- Hippocrates son-in-law)


End file.
